


The Whitehurst Algorithm

by Beefmaster, OdioEtAmo



Series: Flying Colours [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1950s, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28225122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beefmaster/pseuds/Beefmaster, https://archiveofourown.org/users/OdioEtAmo/pseuds/OdioEtAmo
Summary: The two worst men in the office fall in love.
Relationships: Sholto Pymm/Charles "Whitey" Whitehurst
Series: Flying Colours [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067648
Kudos: 2





	1. Linear Algebra

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, the moment we've all been waiting for: the Shitey fic.
> 
> Thank you to everyone in the Ghosts OC server for your support, aka putting up with us as we talked about them nonstop. We couldn't have done it without you. Special thanks to Cedar, our number one cheerleader.

It’s half past eight when I arrive at my new workplace. It’s a nice building. Very modern. Streamlined Moderne to be precise. Incredible if you like that sort of thing. I don’t, but there you go. It’s not new, per se, but Ackerman, Jones, and Brawley have undergone a merger: yesteryear’s Ackerman and Jones is now also owned (I assume) by a Mr Brawley, three men who all certainly know how to name a company. 

I’m greeted in the lobby by a woman I assume is Myrtle, the head secretary. She’s a striking woman, with dark, curly hair and full lips. Her face lights up when she sees me. This is, believe it or not, not an uncommon reaction to me. 

“You must be Mr. Pymm,” she says. She licks her lips. “I’m Myrtle Dunning, the head of the secretarial pool here at Ackerman, Jones and Brawley. I’m excited to show you around.”

“Awright!” I reply with a sly smile. “Glad to meetcha, Myrtle.” 

Myrtle’s face falls a little. This is also not an uncommon reaction to meeting me.

“Let’s begin the tour then, shall we?” 

“Brill.”

Despite the impressive exterior, the offices of Ackerman, Jones and Brawley look more or less the same as any other office I’ve been in. They’ve got desks and offices and people sitting at those desks and in those offices. They’ve fitted out the workspaces with these really incredibly brown carpets. They’re likely very practical, but they’re definitely very brown. The walls are similar; a lot of the original architecture has been covered over with new walls, some painted orange, the rest in a chestnut coloured wood. I couldn’t hazard a guess at the type, I know absolutely fuck all about wood, especially in decoration. I might ask about it all the same.

“What kind of wood is this?”

Myrtle turns around. “What?”

“What kind of wood is this? It’s not chestnut, is it? Is that an actual type of wood, or is it just a colour? I was never sure. I suppose it could be oak, or perhaps maple. Not red enough to be mahogany, certainly.”

Myrtle stares at me for a moment. “I’m really not sure. Shall I show you the kitchen?”

Myrtle steers me away toward a door at the side. It feels like perhaps the tour is reaching the end of its natural lifespan, or perhaps meeting an untimely and tragic end. Either way, she walks remarkably fast on her smart little black heels. I’ve often wondered, if I had to wear heels regularly, if it was something people expected of me, would I do a good job of it? I have the legs for it, I can say that with confidence, but the real question is balance, isn’t it? There must be so many terrain issues, now surely that would make wearing them unthinkable. What says a three inch heel when faced with a gravel driveway, or those awful cobblestones they have in Oxford? I’ve been to Oxford once or twice, and say what you will for the town, but those cobbles are just unbearable. It was wet and I had a brand new pair of shoes on and it took a man on either side bracing me to keep me from falling over entirely. Or was it Cambridge?

“This is the kitchen,” Myrtle says, and I suddenly realise I have entered the kitchen. “The mugs are kept over there. We’ve got a few you can borrow, but most people bring their own.”

She gestures over to an open cabinet over the counter, just as a man retrieved a mug from it. 

The man, by the way, is very handsome. He’s got the sweetest, roundest cheeks I’ve ever seen on a man, and his fingernails are clean and neat. He’s shorter than me, but not too short. In fact, he’s probably the perfect height to rest his head on my shoulder, which is a theory I’d very much like to test. I’m very glad to know the office comes with eye candy. Makes me feel like I made the right choice in coming here.

“Alright?” I say. 

The man turns to face me more fully. “Hello,” he says, frowning. He seems confused as to why I would address him.

“My name’s Sholto Pymm, I’m the new financial analyst. It’s my first day.”

“I’m Charles Whitehurst,” he says simply.

“Everybody calls him Whitey though,” Myrtle says. Charles (or is it Whitey?) glares.

“Myrtle’s just been showing me around. Say, do you know about the wood paneling? What kind of wood is that?”

“I don’t know. _I_ didn’t pick the décor,” Whitey (Charles?) says glumly. 

“Wouldya need to, to tell me what it’s made of? I say that, I don’t know either. I can only do the basic elements. But I do those well! I can identify any clock you point me at.”

Mr. Whitehurst frowns at me for a moment, and then he smiles. And oh, fuck, what a beautiful smile it is. One of those smiles that makes your stomach constrict and your legs feel stringy just to look at it. His small mouth curves at the edges, framed by those darling pudgy cheeks, baring the most perfectly cute little white teeth. Now _that_ was a smile that could lay a man low. It leaves me feeling rather entranced. My cheeks feel warm, and I can’t tell if it shows. If it does, I may have to fake some unappealing skin complaint. Or maybe an allergy. Sorry Myrtle, I’ve gotta run to the doctor sharpish, it’s very urgent! Then again, maybe nobody notices. No, I’d just attract more attention. I’ll save that gambit for a more significant obstacle than pretty Mr. Whitehurst smiling at me. 

If he does it a lot though, I may have to take my losses and defect to the USSR. 

“If I ever forget how to distinguish clocks you’ll be the first person I’ll ask for help.” Whitehurst’s face settles back into a more faint version of the smile he had given. 

“Well then,” Myrtle says. To be honest, I had almost forgotten she was there. “We’re almost at the end of our tour. Shall I show you your desk?”

“Yes please,” I say, tearing my eyes away from Mr. Whitehurst. I give him another cursive smile before I go, just to assert myself into his mind a bit. Just in case my presence is too subtle.

“See you around-” I frantically try to remember what I’m calling him. Who knew this could be so complicated, eh? “Errrrr, Charles.”

Both Myrtle and Charles- Whitehurst- Whitey? Give me odd looks as I say this. I have chosen wrong, but I’ll have to keep calling him it, just so they know I’m not a pushover. Oh dear, though. 

Myrtle quickly steers me away, back onto the floor, and leads me to a cubicle in a back corner of the office. It’s got a desk, a chair, and a standing chalkboard.

“This is you,” she tells me. “I hope you like the chalkboard, it was my idea. I thought, you know, you math types like writing your equations on the chalkboard…” She trails off a bit, clearly embarrassed.

“Oh Myrtle,” I gush, “it’s perfect. I love it! I’ve always wanted a chalkboard at work. I suggested it all the time at my last place, but they told me that’s what pen and paper are for. But there’s something about really large numbers that makes them easier to think about, I’m sure of it. Like they’re bigger! Well, obviously they are. But in your head, y’know. I’m very visual in that way. Some people can hold all those numbers in keeping without visual prompts- marvelous isn’t it- but I can’t stand to keep things in my head.”

“No, I can’t imagine you do,” Myrtle says. “Well, I’ll give you a minute to settle in. John Ackerman should be by in a minute, he’ll give you more specific instructions on how to get started.”

She leaves quickly, before I can say anything else, which I suppose is just as well. It gives me time to make myself at home. Not to be overconfident, but I think I’ll get on very well here.

***

Sholto, it seems, is not very popular at the office. 

“He won’t shut up,” Walt says. Walt has cornered me in our tiny office kitchen to complain about Sholto. “His figures are good, I guess, but good Lord, he’ll ramble on at you for hours if you let him.”

“Walt,” I say with as much restraint as I can muster, “please finish chewing your peanuts before you speak to me.”

Walt ignores my (very reasonable) request, and charges ahead. “I’m sure you’ve got an opinion on him, Whitey. I mean, you hate everyone.”

“I don’t hate everyone.” 

“Just about. You know, sometimes I even think you might hate _me._ ” 

_I do._ “I don’t hate you Walt. I just wish you’d stand a little farther away from me when you speak.”

Walt takes a small step back. “Listen, spend a little time with him. You’re going to hate him too.”

The funny thing is, I don’t hate Sholto. Walt’s not exactly wrong, I do hate most of the people in this office. But Sholto’s different. And it’s not just because he’s so handsome, I’m not _shallow._ Although he is handsome. He’s got blond hair, which I’ve always been a bit of a sucker for, and the most incredible shoulders and arms. I’m sure his chest and stomach are just as nice, but with my luck, I’ll never get to see it. He’s got a gap between his front teeth, which you might think would make him look like a troglodyte, but it’s actually very charming. 

But it’s not _just_ that he’s handsome. He’s also a little funny, and very smart. At first I was a bit miffed that they hired an analyst. I mean, I’ve been suggesting for years that they hire one, but of course, nobody listened to me. It wasn’t until we merged with those Americans that the higher-ups started to consider that perhaps maths could help us understand the stock market. That’s why they hired Sholto, to do the sort of trend analysis and Gaussian logic we should have been doing years ago. I didn’t expect much when Sholto gave his first presentation to us last week, but I must admit he impressed me. He wheeled a chalkboard into the conference room and proceeded to show us the most exciting algorithms I’ve seen since university. Sure, some of his language was a little too technical for me, and he did go on a rather lengthy tangent about the history of Earl Grey tea, but I was hooked.

After his presentation, I stopped to ask him if he thought computing machines would ever be able to be used to predict market behaviour. He froze, and stammered something about how he’d have to do more research, and then he fled the room. It was just as well, really. If our conversation had gone on much longer, I probably would have said something foolish, or else stared into his rich, green eyes a little too long.

So I don’t hate Sholto. And I much rather spend time with him then with Walt, getting little pieces of peanut spit into my face. I grab my tea mug and run out of the kitchen before Walt can say anything else to me. Sometimes I think the hardest part of my job is avoiding all the inane conversations my coworkers want to have with me.

I’ve made it back to my office and I’ve just settled into my desk when I get a buzz from Brenda, my newest secretary. Brenda’s only been on my desk for about a week and she’s already getting on my nerves. I have a bit of a reputation around here for going through secretaries quickly, but I swear they always give me the worst ones. They’re always gossiping, or chewing gum, or asking me if I need something every two minutes. Brenda’s actually a pretty skilled typist, but her fingernails make a very annoying tapping sound as she types ,and she always wears too much perfume.

“Mr. Whitehurst,” she says, “Sholto Pymm is here to see you. He doesn’t have an appointment.” I can tell that last part bothers her. 

“Send him in,” I say. I reach up and pat my hair into place. It doesn’t really matter what I look like, of course, but if I have a choice, I’d rather look nice.

“Hello,” Sholto says as he comes in. “You’re not busy, are you?”

“Not particularly.”

“If you’re busy, I can come back later. I don’t have any meetings today or anything, it’s just me and my numbers. Your secretary said you didn’t have anything, but she did seem upset I didn’t have an appointment. Next time I’ll make an appointment, if you’d like. Even if you don’t care, I s’pose I should, just for Brenda’s benefit. It was a very unpleasant conversation we just had. The smell of her! I mean, she doesn’t smell _bad,_ but she is wearing an awful lot of Chanel No. 5.” Sholto’s eyes go wide. “Sorry, was that rude?”

I smile. “No, it’s alright. I’ve noticed that as well, it’s awful. Would you like to have a seat?” I point at the chair on the other side of my desk.

“A seat?” He seems confused.

“Yes. I assume you didn’t just come by just to complain about Brenda.”

“Oh! Yes.” Sholto pulls up the chair and sits. “I did some research on computing machines for you.” 

“Computing machines?” 

“Yes. You asked about them the other day.” Before I can say anything else, Sholto launches into an in depth explanation of computing machines, algorithms, and some woman named Ada Lovelace, and then a brief tangent about underground gambling rings. I don’t understand all of it, but what I do understand is fascinating. Sometime around noon, I cut him off. 

“Sholto, this is all very interesting, but I am getting hungry.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” he says, pushing his chair back, “I’ll get going then, shall I?”

“You don’t have to,” I say. “We could get lunch together.”

Sholto blinks. “Lunch?”

 _Shoot._ Of course Sholto doesn’t want to get lunch with me, he’s probably already got lunch plans. He’s probably taking some secretary out to drink martinis and play footsie under the table. “You don’t have to. I’m sure you’re busy. I don’t mind eating alone, really. That’s what I usually do.”

Sholto looks bewildered. I can’t have made this too difficult for him, can I? It’s stupid, I never should have imposed. He’s probably thinking of excuses right now. 

“I like lunch.” He finally spurts out.

“Alright,” I say. “There’s a place around the corner that does an excellent tuna sandwich. Shall we go?”

Sholto nods vigorously. “I’d love to.”

I get up from my desk and put my jacket back on, while Sholto starts telling me about the life cycle and mating patterns of the Yellowfin Tuna. I’m only half listening, though. I keep getting distracted by the way his moustache moves when he talks. As we leave my office, he holds the door open for me, which makes me feel something light and fluttering in my chest, which I haven’t felt in a very long time. 

“We’re going to lunch,” I tell Brenda, as we pass her desk.

“Oh, alright. Do you mind if I take my lunch then? Some of the other girls and I thought we’d pop to Debenhams to look at lipstick.”

“Brenda,” I tell her seriously, “I really don’t care what you do.”

Brenda’s mouth opens and shuts, rather like a fish. With that irksome conversation out of the way, Sholto and I make our way toward the lobby.

“Wait, my hat!” he says suddenly. “I’ll fetch it. Unless you want to come with me. See my desk. There’s not much going on there yet, I’m still new. But I’ve got this brilliant chalkboard for my algorithms and sums. Some of it I haven’t shown to anyone else yet. You can see if you want.”

“I’d like that.” Perhaps it’s childish of me, but it does make me feel rather special, to be the first one to see his work.

Sholto leads me to the back of the office, where he works. It’s sort of a cordoned off area, with a desk and, as promised, a chalkboard. Sholto bounds over the board to show me.

“I don’t know how much you know about linear algebra-”

“A decent amount,” I tell him.

Sholto grins. “Great. So this should make sense to you.” I can tell he’s about to launch into a full explanation, so I cut him off.

“Sholto, lunch, remember?”

“Right! I’ll show you later. But you might like this.” Sholto flips the chalkboard over to reveal a large and elaborate chalk drawing on the other side.

“Is that Tintin?”

“Yep! Did him myself.” 

“It’s pretty good.” I’m not lying. I don’t believe in lying about that sort of thing. If it isn’t good, you ought to know. But the drawing is nice. Nothing professional looking, but it’s very clearly Tintín, Snowy, and that handsome sea captain they’re always hanging around with. “You’ve got some talent.”

“Thanks,” Sholto says. I look over at him, and he’s blushing. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone blush in real life. The women in trashy novels are always blushing, but people in real life never do. Except Sholto. 

“Shall we go?” 

“Alright.” Sholto grabs his hat from atop his desk. As I watch, I notice a ceramic figurine of a woman carrying flowers on his desk. It’s far more charming than it has any right to be. He places the hat on his head and grins at me. “To lunch!”

“Huh.” Says Sholto, looking around at the decorations. “Nice place, this is.”

The decorations are fairly vile actually. The whole interior is obscenely tacky, all these fishing nets hanging from the ceiling and gaudy paintings of the Sardinian environs applied to the wood panelling. But Sal’s food is worth being blinded by his decorations. His little caf has been here since before I started at Ackerman & Jones. Or Ackerman, Jones, and Brawley so help me. If I were him, I’d be on the next boat back to sunny little Sardinia. But for some reason he isn’t, and he determines himself to bring Italian cuisine to the uneducated masses of the north bank. Not that he can, what with the food shortages, but he does make an impeccable sandwich. 

“It’s the most tolerable place to eat around here. You haven’t been before?” 

“No, not really.” Sholto says, still rather fidgety. I can’t tell if he’s staring at me or the garish painting of Olbia at my back. 

“They didn’t take you to lunch on your first day?”

“They did, at that little place down the road with the shiny walls. Our waitress had very fluffy hair. So much of it too. I did worry it’d get in the food.” 

“Oh, Greenley’s?” I wrinkle my nose. “Awful place. You know, one of their chairs once took a man’s finger off at the knuckle? I wouldn’t eat their food if you paid me. If that’s where you’ve been getting lunch you should think about changing that.” 

“Me? Nah. I bring my own lunches, it’s a lot more practical. Cheaper too, cuts down on my expenses and I can be sure I won’t find someone’s thumbnail in my food. Happened to me once you know, it was in a pork pie. My Ma told me it was probably just a bit of cartilage but you know a thumbnail when you see one y'know? Went back with it to the butchers anyway, to complain and you know what they gave her in return?”

“What?” I lean in, interestedly. I’m glad he’s started talking again, I don’t really know what to do when he’s quiet. It seems wrong somehow and I always forget where to direct my eyes. I try looking at his tie every now and then but it just seems to lead me back up to his lips.

“Another pork pie for half the price!” Sholto exclaims, before leaning back in his seat, grinning. “Tell ya what, she wasn’t half pleased with herself either. Let me stay up an hour late that night listening to the wireless. Still, I wouldn’t want it happening again, all’s the same.” 

Somehow, I have a very vivid mental image of Sholto’s mother. It interests me to think what sort of a person could have produced Sholto Pymm. Everything he’s telling me is interesting, actually. I hadn’t thought of him to be the frugal type- I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but I thought he’d be very frivolous. And either he can cook, or (less appealing) someone cooks for him. 

“So does someone make lunch for you? A wife or- or something?” I ask and immediately regret it. I don’t want to know. I never wanted less to know if someone had a woman in their life. “Don’t pay me any attention.” I add despondently. “It doesn’t matter, I don’t need to meddle in your personal affairs.”

Sholto raises an eyebrow at me which makes me even more self conscious, drat it all. He holds up the backs of both hands at me, waggling them in front of my eyes, and I realise I had never really looked at his hands. They’re more graceful than I had ever expected, with beautiful long fingers and impeccably smooth skin apart from a smallish weal by his left middle knuckle. A few veins stand out, but not in an unappealing way. 

“See? No rings.” He says, placing them back down on the table and I realise rather latently that no, he hadn’t been wearing any rings. Of course, I’m an idiot. I could’ve told that without opening my mouth. I nod.

“And no hangers on, either.” He continues. “Just me, so I do make my own food.” His hands come to rest on the table beside his knife and fork. “It’s no trouble, I like cooking for myself, it’s a bit of fun right? That way nobody can make me eat things that I don’t like, which isn’t really such a problem because I’m not a fussy eater, but I don’t eat meat much if I can avoid it-” Sholto freezes mid sentence. “Oh, is that our food coming?”

I turn around to look. It’s definitely not our food coming, it’s going to the chatty couple who are thankfully sat at the other side of the cafe. But our food comes almost immediately after, and we tuck in. Sholto adds pepper to his soup and I can’t help but watch his hands on the pepper shaker. The way his slender fingers curl around it, gently but firmly. It really feels rather inappropriate to watch, like he shouldn’t be allowed to do it in public. Despite this, it’s a very nice lunch, and when we go back to the office I really hope we’ll do it again sometime soon. So really, dreadful as it’s been in all other respects, the merger has done one thing for me at least. I finally have a colleague I can stomach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming! If you'd like to think about something cursed, think about the fact that when they inevitably make a movie out of this fic, the movie studio will suggest we cast James Corden as Whitey.


	2. Expectation Minimization Optimization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sholto discusses his new crush with an old friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is just Sholto perspective. Not that you care about Whitey perspective. Nobody cares about Whitey, really. But that's alright. No, really, it's alright.

I join Fred on the patio in his back garden. I don’t have a key to the house, but I don’t really need one. Usually someone’s in, and if they aren’t I usually just come around the back door and enjoy the garden, feed Ted’s fish. Often I’ll actually do this instead of knocking. Ted’s often in his conservatory, draughting dinky little miniature kits, though not actual dinky toys. I know, I was disappointed too. Though it’s barely April today is almost a temperate day and Fred is sat on his patio in a wicker chair, reading a very slim volume that I can’t quite make out the title on but I’m sure it’s utter rot for sure. Fred never reads improving books. Honestly, I don’t think he takes well to the idea of being improved. 

I sit down in the chair beside him and lean over, kissing him on the cheek.

Fred laughs. “Down, boy!” He beams at me. 

Not to sound like a broken record, and I know I do, but Fred’s smile was what made me fall for him. He’s a beautiful man, all’s told, covered in freckles, and even if his hair is thinning a bit about the top it’s a gorgeous, almost ginger auburn. He knows he’s handsome so I won’t harp on about it but you could go a very long time without seeing a smile like that. If you weren’t prepared, it could do you some permanent damage. I think I almost choked on my own tongue, the first time I saw it. You don’t ever want him to stop smiling, not Fred. It seems so natural on him. 

“You should be careful, little chancer. I’ll let my husband loose on you.” He grins through his crooked teeth. 

He’s funny like that. I feel like I should preface Fred, so let's take a little break from how he is and talk about what he is. That’s a pilot, first and foremost. One of the best. When I started service in the RAF it was him I flew with. I was pretty awful at covering my six, so he’s probably the reason I wasn’t snuffed out on some southern hillside like an unfortunate gnat. It took me a good few years to wear him down to the point of liking me, but he does now, and I know that. He just doesn’t love me, which is why I’ve spent so much time trying not to be in love with him. I said it once, which was really an accident, since he was taking me from behind and restraint isn’t my strong suit when I’m being fucked. After, he told me it didn’t sound very platonic, and he was right. So he told me it wouldn’t be right for him and Ted to sleep with me from then on. Ouch, right? But I get it, things would have been awkward if we’d kept the same arrangements. We’re all still friends though. And if I play my cards right I might get a kiss on the cheek from Theo too. 

I do wish that we were still sleeping together. Anyway, back to the present.

“Dread to think what he’ll do with me.” I respond, wittily. “I should watch out, he might offer me a biscuit...”

I think. 

“Is there any chance of biscuits?” I ask diplomatically. “If there are you should offer me some. I think I’d be very happy if Ted’s shortbread was the only food I could ever eat again. I really do like the way it crumbles, it’s in my top five biscuits hands down, and-”

Fred hits me with his book, though I reassure you this is done with fondness. 

“No such luck. I had to see my doctor last week so he’s going through another one of his awful health kicks. I’ve tried to convince him that health is meant to be spent on the things that make you happy, but he’s very obstinate. Have any cigarettes on you, by any chance?”

“I do.” I pull a packet of cigarettes out from my jacket pocket. They’re unopened. I don’t actually smoke much, it's an expensive habit to have, but I smoke when I’m around Fred and it sweetens him up so it’s a good investment when I’m visiting. Ted only blames Fred if I give him them anyway, so it all works out. 

We each take a cigarette, and I offer Fred my lighter, before using it for my own purposes. Watching Theo try to control his health is like watching an ant try to play chess. Keep going mate, I believe in you! But I don’t.

“So, what about this new job eh?” Fred elbows me, already cheered by the cigarette between his lips.

“Oh, it’s really rather nice, they have very autumnal interiors. They even gave me a blackboard for sums, or when I’m giving a presentation to their lads on the floor. The work is good enough. They got no clue what they need me for but who cares. Trend analysis has a lot of finer points that get ignored really, so…”

I tell Fred in depth about the nuances of trend analysis and how essential it could prove to be to the stock broker. It’s fascinating stuff, and he even pretends to be interested.

“...Oh, and there’s this guy, one of the more senior brokers. Not old though, my age maybe. Fuck me, hes distracting.”

Fred perks up at this. Pretty men, he understands. “In a sexy way? Or just a bit of a twit?”

“So bloody handsome.” Is all I can think to say. 

“Well? Come on Sholto, tell me about him!” Fred leans over conspiratorially, his deep brown eyes glimmering with delight. I don’t look at them too hard. 

Instead I think about Charles Whitehurst, the world’s handsomest stock broker, complaining about a milk puddle somebody left in the kitchen. 

“Well."

The garden door shuts behind us. 

“Hello, Sholto.” A voice says. It’s Ted, of course. Theo, Ted, Teddy, whatever I’ve been calling him, this is him. I spring out of my chair before embracing him in a big bear hug. Only natural since he is a teddy bear. 

He looks happy to see me, as he usually does. He’s someone I’ve nearly never seen look unhappy to see me and that’s really something for me. He once suggested that he’d been mellowed by age, which must be a joke because usually it works the other way in people. Also, when I first met him he was younger than Fred is now, and still friendly! But, I won’t dig into that. Theo’s nice to look at too, in a very different way. His looks are very gentle, even when he’s frowning, The sort of man you’d trust to hold your baby, if you were in the sort of position to trust a random man with your baby. He was in the army from before the war even started and you can see it in parts of him, like how shiny his shoes always are and how neat he always is, despite Fred’s best efforts to dishevel him. But he left the army after the end of the war to be with Fred, and changed his appearance rather quickly to being ‘cozy’ i.e. getting a bit of a gut and wearing so many jumpers. Some things don’t change though. I’ve never seen him without a well kept and deeply sensible mustache and I don’t ever expect to. There are some parts of a man that you can’t expect something as little as age to put a dent in. 

I enjoy having my arms around him until he pats me on the back, which is the sign to let go. Instead of returning to my chair I move a few paces away, and sit on the end of the diving board that goes over their pool (see? I told you their house was fancy). This is so that Theo can sit on my chair next to Fred, which really is his chair and is also common courtesy since he is seventeen years my senior. 

“Cigarette?” He demands from Fred, giving him a stern look.

“No.” Fred pouts, looking away. 

“Fred.” He says again, a hint of warning coming into his voice. 

“Fine!” Fred takes a final, angry drag from his cigarette and drops it on the ground, crushing it beneath his heel. It’s great watching them bicker, since they like each other so well. That sort of bickering with romantic tension, just like they do so well in the pictures. It gives me a rather profound sense of deja vu when I’m in the cinema, since largely I can watch the same thing happen any weekend where I have the time. I gave Fred a version of Cary Grant’s pink nightgown from Bringing Up Baby for a birthday, but I don’t think he got the joke. It does however look incredible on him.

“Me and Sholto were just talking about his new crush.” Fred informs his man. 

Theo nods, and raises an eyebrow.

“How exciting. Please, tell me.” 

I can’t turn down an invitation like that to talk.

“Well, he’s one of the brokers, the good ones, he even has his own office and this secretary, really she’s quite pretty under it all but she does cake herself in foundation. He has a bit of a reputation for being unfriendly, some of the secretaries warned me about him, but it isn’t really true. Maybe they aren’t that good at reading people, that’s what I think. I think he’s probably very reasonable, I don’t know him well though. We haven’t talked so much.” 

“But you think he’s pleasant enough?” Theo asks me, because I think he wants to be assured.

“I do! He’s not really that rude, and he takes his tea earl grey, with milk and one and a half sugars. He smiled at me on my first day, and that was after we’d chatted a little so I think he might do it again. His face is so pretty when he smiles-”

“Ahh, getting to the good bit!” Fred leans forward eagerly. “I need a precise mental image.”

“Well I’m getting to it! Anyway, he has a superb mouth, really special. Those lips… And he has dark hair and it’s straight and very neat. Lovely hair. And is it rude if I tell you he’s quite fat? It feels rude, is it rude? He is though, is the thing, so really it’s just observation. You know, I’d really like to kiss his chin, I feel like it’d be lovely to kiss, it looks so soft. Really though, he’s very distracting. Whenever we’re in meetings I really just hope he’ll get out of his seat and pin me up against the wall and have his way with me. You know how it is.”

“Mmmm.” Fred gives Theo a hungry look, who chuckles appreciatively in return. Clearly they both do know how it is, and I should stop egging them on because I’m not even allowed to watch if they have sex now. 

“Yeah, well. With my luck he’s straight as anything, and probably not even into moustaches.” I add sourly and look away. I hadn’t meant to sound so upset about it. It isn’t anything to be upset about, just an idle crush. Am I upset? I’m not upset. 

“Is he single?” Theo asked, tearing his eyes from Freddie for just a second. 

“Dunno. No wedding ring, so he’s probably not married at least. Maybe divorced? Anyway he doesn’t have a picture on his desk that strikes me as a girl or wife. He doesn’t keep much on his desk though, it's so neat so I don’t really know. Listen, it’s nothing. I just like looking at him and thinking about him, that’s all.”

Theo nods. I don’t actually know anything about his romantic life aside from Fred but I assume he’s very wise, especially about matters of the heart.

“Well, that’s something at least, eh?” He says kindly. “He sounds lovely, Sholto. I’m sure he’ll be a great friend to have.”

I nod in agreement, very sagely. Theo is a very kind man, but also a careful one, and I feel like he’s picking his words very carefully. Maybe he worries about me getting my hopes up- he probably does, actually. For what it’s worth, I’m really not so easily led as either of them think. I’m not naive, I know I don’t have a chance. I don’t need anyone to tell me that, either. It’s just nice to have feelings like this, sometimes. A little daydreaming never did me any harm, probably. 

“Well, never mind all that now.” Fred interrupted, very matter-of-factly. “I’m sure that’s enough yammering from all of us. Isn’t it time for lunch?”


	3. MISER Algorithm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles Whitehurst continues to spend time with his new friend Sholto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is only Whitey's perspective, which is only fair because last chapter was only Sholto. Obviously, we like hearing from Sholto but it's good to hear from Whitey too because he's quite an interesting chap. The title of this chapter, MISER algorithm, refers to a type of Monte Carlo integration, which we assumed had something to do with game theory or counting cards based on the name, but is actually very high level calculus. We didn't understand it, as Elizabeth took Multivariable Calculus seven years ago and doesn't remember much of it, and Algie has never taken calculus at all. If you'd like to give it a crack, check it out here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monte_Carlo_integration 
> 
> We don't know where the MISER part of the name comes from, although it appears to be an acronym. None of the sources we looked at would say. But the reason we chose it for the title is that it's sort of a play on Whitey's attitude toward life, in that he is miserly with his own happiness. As such, you don't need to understand any math to read this chapter, although really, basic math literacy never hurt anyone.

Sholto and I have eaten lunch together almost every day this month. Sometimes we go to Sal’s, but more often than not we just sit together in the office kitchen, eating what we brought from home. Sholto appears to be an excellent cook; his lunches always look delicious. Far more appetising than my lunches, at least. Sometimes I’m tempted to ask for a bite, but it would be awfully uncomfortable if he were to say no.

We’re eating lunch right now, in the kitchen. I’m eating an anchovy sandwich, and Sholto has an incredible smelling cheese and pickle sandwich. We aren’t really talking though, which is unusual for us. Normally, the only time Sholto is quiet is when he’s listening to me, and not even always then. Sometimes we’ll just talk over each other, which I don’t really mind. Today, however, Sholto is being inordinately quiet, and so am I. We’re both sort of eavesdropping on the conversation at the next table over.

“Well sure, I saw my fair share of combat. I was at Arnem, you know. They dropped us all into battle in a glider, with our gun battery and all. Now there’s a day I’ll never forget,” says Doug. He’s perched on the table in a position that seems neither safe nor comfortable, but it does get him closer to Angie, which I assume is his goal. “We could hear the Jerries strafing the Halifax that was towing us out, like being in the middle of the biggest thunderstorm you’ve ever seen. A bullet came straight through the side of it, right before my eyes. Man next to me fainted clean away, but not me. You had to pull yourself together you know, in a position like that.”

“And that was the closest you came to them, was it?” Len says. He’s sitting on Angie’s left side, body turned toward her. Angie, for her part, isn’t really looking at either of them, too focused on her egg salad sandwich.

“Now when I was serving in France,” Len begins, but that’s about all the eavesdropping I can take. I’ve always found this sort of posturing so boring, and I don’t know how Angie puts up with it, especially considering that I heard she was a spy in Paris during the war. Not that I listen to that sort of office gossip, but Kathy was talking about it very loudly once, and she’s got the sort of grating voice you can’t ignore.

I look over at Sholto, who is still listening to them. I’m surprised he hasn’t said anything, honestly. Maybe he didn’t serve, or he’s embarrassed of his service. 

“I was in the Navy, you know,” I say. If he’s embarrassed to share, he won’t be after I tell him about my service.

“Really?” Sholto seems genuinely startled. Whether it’s because I spoke so suddenly, or because he can’t imagine me in the Navy, I won’t guess.

“I was, I enlisted. It wasn’t exciting, though.” I pick at my crust. “I was in the purchasing department. Never even got in a boat. I sat at a desk in an office like this one, looking over invoices and buying flour in bulk.” I take a bite of my sandwich, staring furiously at the anchovy hanging out.

“Did you have a uniform?” Sholto asks.

I look up at him. Great, he’s making fun of me. 

“I did,” I say finally. Sometimes it’s better to pretend you don’t know people are mocking you, to avoid giving them the satisfaction. “I didn’t wear it to work or anything, but I had a uniform for official functions.”

Sholto nods. “Well, I’m sure you were great at that. You’ve got a head for finances. Probably saved them all sorts of money.”

“I might’ve.” My cheeks feel hot. “They were quite poorly managed. They’d keep buying from the same suppliers, year after year, not because they were the best or even the cheapest but because they were well established and had greased the right palms at the time. And they’d be just left to it, because people figure nobody would try to swindle the Navy. Turns out, lots of people would.” I scratch the back of my neck. “What did you do? In the war I mean. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“Oh, what, me?” Sholto runs his hand through his hair, and I wonder if he’s still embarrassed by it. Even though I wouldn’t judge. “I signed up in ‘40 and for some reason they let me fly fighter planes. Hurricanes and Tempests mostly. Saw some of France and Germany but mostly just from the air, so not quite the same experience the boys on the ground got.”

“Oh.” Now my cheeks  _ really  _ feel hot. “You were a fighter pilot.” I feel rather silly for dithering on about supply contracts, now. “Were you any good at it?”

Sholto’s face goes red. “I wasn’t too bad. Not the best, in my squadron even but I bagged enough to be an ace, technically.”

“That’s impressive.” What an understatement. It sounds like Sholto’s just about the biggest war hero in the office, Angie included. Speaking of which, I’m not entirely sure why he’s sitting here telling this story to me, instead of impressing Angie with it. He’d blow Doug and Len out of the water. 

“It really isn’t when you think about it. You only need five to be considered, and I flew pretty much consecutively from early ‘41 til the end of the war. If I didn’t manage to bag a few by then I’d be an awful fighter. And I was a wingman, so some of my count are shared victories with Fred- he was always the real ace out of the two of us and frankly between us, even he’s no Walter Nowotny.”

“Who’s Fred?” Out of all the information Sholto just bombarded me with, it’s Fred the “real ace” that sticks out. I feel a bit… jealous, I suppose. Which really isn’t fair. It’s not like I thought I was the first friend Sholto ever had.

“You don’t know Fred?” Sholto seems genuinely surprised for a second, and I wonder if I should know Fred. Should I? “No, why would you, ignore me. I’m not great at explaining him, it usually works the other way round, you see. Well, it’s common practice for fighter pilots to come in pairs, to look out for each other. And Fred was mine, and also my commander. Fred’s terrific, he really is. Flies as good as a German ace and shoots almost as well. His father was an ace too, back in the Great War. He did alright bossing us around. Though now really we’re just friends, but I like to think I’m still watching his six.” He smiles, a small private smile that is clearly in response to the thought of  _ Fred _ .

“He sounds wonderful,” I say grimly. So it is jealousy I’m feeling, a burning sort of jealous that makes me feel a little sick. A man like Sholto would never talk about me the way he talks about Fred. I wish he would though. It’s silly and hopeless, but I want so much for Sholto to smile like that thinking about me. I suppose this means I have to admit what I’ve been avoiding: I’ve got feelings for Sholto. I’ve got, as horrible as the word is, a  _ crush.  _ I want to kiss him and touch his chest and wake up beside him, all the awful things you feel in this sort of nasty situation. It isn’t fair, not to me and certainly not to Sholto, but here we are.

“Of course he is, I wouldn’t say it if he wasn’t. He’d like you, actually. I’m sure of that.” Sholto makes quite a curious expression, not quite one of his normal rakish grins. A little more subdued. He looks at me rather closely and I find myself having to look away. I hope my expression doesn’t betray anything. “Anyway,” He continues, “I’m sure that’s enough about my service, what exactly goes on in the purchasing department, eh? It sounds fascinating.” He leans in closer, eyes glittering. 

“It really wasn’t, but alright. Like I said, they were a bit disorganized. One of the first things I was supposed to do was purchase caulking. Now, I wasn’t a caulk expert, or anything, but I did work on ships a bit when I was young-”

“You did?” 

“Yes, I used to winter on the fishing boats that stayed in our local dry dock over Christmas. They need people aboard, to look after the ship, keep it in good condition and refit things that are looking a bit worse for wear after the year’s work. It was a nice thing to do, for a teenager, and often I was the only one on board for part of that time, so I’d get space to myself. Anyway, I wasn’t an expert on buying caulking in bulk or anything, but I knew how much it cost from a shop, and I knew a bit about how buying from wholesalers works. My father sold and repaired refrigerators, and I used to help him with some of the business side of things. Anyway, the price the navy was buying their caulking at just didn’t make sense, so I looked into other suppliers, and I was right. I thought maybe there was something specific about their caulking, like it was military grade or something like that, or perhaps there was a political reason they used the suppliers they did, but I asked around, and it turns out they used that supplier because it was the supplier they had always used. And the supplier, of course, figuring the Navy’s business was a sure thing, was bilking them for all they had.” Suddenly, I’m keenly aware of how deeply boring I’m being. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you don’t care about this.”

“No, no, I really do.” I’m not the best at reading body language, but he really does seem interested. He’s looking at me intently, head slightly cocked to one side. I continue. 

“Well, so I looked into other suppliers, priced it out, you know. I ended up on the phone with some of them, negotiating lower prices, considering it was for the war effort and all. I was probably a bit rude, but in the end I saved them quite a bit on the caulking. My boss must have been at least somewhat impressed, because he kept assigning me to different supplies, asking me to do the same thing.”

“Well you’ve already impressed me. Not a lot of men could do that, not well at least. You give a man a gun and point him in a direction, he can fight. If you sat a man at a desk with a lot of contracts and forms, you can’t be sure they’ll know what to do, or even do it honestly. Being trusted to do something like that, and doing it well, that’s more important than combat. A million soldiers and pilots and- battery operators, whatever, without good management or a supply chain, they can’t fight a war. Not without you behind them.” Sholto flushes red. “Someone like you- you get what I mean. Right?”

“I do.” Sometimes I hate when Sholto says things like that. It almost feels like he’s flirting, which of course he isn’t. I check my watch. “Lunch is almost over. We should probably finish up.” I ball up the aluminium foil from my sandwich and put it back into my paper bag, then I brush the crumbs from the table into the bag. Sometimes people make fun of me for being so fastidious about crumbs, but Sholto never does. Right now, he’s too focused on telling me what he’s thinking of making for lunch tomorrow. As we leave the kitchen, Sholto holds the door open for me, and I feel another sick flash of jealousy as I imagine all the beautiful women he probably holds doors open for as well. 

At 4:57pm, I decided I've done enough work for the day. I put on my hat and coat and make my way out of the building. I get on the westbound Central line at Bank, where you can never get a seat this time of day, and then transfer to the northbound Bakerloo line at Oxford Circus, which always smells faintly of wet dog. I get off at Maida Vale, where a grubby looking child tugs at my trouser leg until its mother pulls it away. I ascend the stairs on the left, and I am almost run over by a man descending the stairs on  _ his _ right, like some sort of American hooligan. I make my way out of the station and walk the four blocks to my flat, even though it’s started to rain a bit. Sometimes I take the bus, but of course the bus isn’t there when I get out of the station, and the bus never seems to keep any sort of reasonable schedule, so it isn’t worth waiting for it. I trudge up the steps of my building to my first floor flat. The key always sticks, so it takes me a moment to get in. When I finally get the door open, I place my hat and coat on the rack by the door, and toe my shoes off. I sit down on my leather sofa, take a deep breath, and rub my eyes. Commuting’s just about the most awful thing in the world, but it’s been especially bad lately. In books, whenever someone’s in love, the world is brighter and more beautiful, but I’ve never found that to be true. In my experience, when you’ve got feelings for someone, the whole world gets a bit greyer, and you’re reminded of how awful your life really is, because you can’t stop thinking about how wonderful it  _ would  _ be if you were able to share it with that special someone. 

I groan as I stretch my arms. I really am a fool for being so besotted with Sholto. I can see the next few months of my life with perfect clarity: I continue to pine after Sholto, until one day I accidentally say something that makes him suspicious of my intentions toward him, at which point he starts to pull away from me, lest I get the wrong impression of the sort of man he is. We’ll still be friendly, sure, but we won’t get lunch anymore, and he won’t stop by my office just to describe the plot of a radio program he heard the night before. I’ll be left alone, again, like I always am.

I’m disturbed from my self-pitying reverie by the phone ringing. I pick up the phone wearily.

“Hello?”

“Hello Charles, it’s Sholto. How are you?”

“Oh! Hello, Sholto. I’m doing well. Just about as well as I was doing a few hours ago when I last saw you.”

“Right, of course. I meant to talk to you before you left, but you were gone before I could find you. I was wondering, well-” Sholto pauses, as if he’s working out what to say. “Would you like to get a pint with me tonight? I was going to suggest someplace close to the office, but you’re not at the office anymore, so that doesn’t make sense. It was probably rude of me to call, actually, we should do it another time-”

“I’d love to get a pint with you,” I say. 

“Great! There’s a pub near me, the Royal Arms, it’s got a great atmosphere-”

“I’ve been there before. I can meet you there in half an hour, if you’d like.”

“I’d like that very much.” 

I smile to myself. “Alright, see you soon. Goodbye, Sholto.”

“Goodbye, Charles.”

I hang up the phone, and rush to my closet. I should probably choose a different shirt, something less stuffy. I’ve got a blue shirt that my friend Edward always says I look very handsome in. I hate that he says it, but I don’t think he’s exactly wrong. I also have some cologne I could wear, which might be nice, because I don’t have time to shower. I’m halfway to the toilet to put it on when I stop suddenly.  _ This isn’t a date,  _ I scold myself,  _ and this is exactly what you shouldn’t be doing _ . If I show up to the pub in a different shirt smelling like sandalwood, Sholto might find it a bit, well, queer. I’ll wear the same shirt, I’ll leave the cologne, and I’ll put on my coat, hat and shoes and go to the pub to grab a pint with my  _ friend _ Sholto. It’s as simple as that.

I might reapply my deodorant though. Just to be safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Unfortunately, neither of us can be contacted at this time, as we are currently sailing through the North Atlantic on our cozy little fishing boat.


End file.
